


smoking it open unto its rosey heart

by Kt_fairy



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Angst and Feels, Blood and Injury, Enemies to Friends, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Misunderstandings, Period Typical Attitudes, Sexual Tension, Time Skips, crozier hates himself and no one has a fun time, internalized period attitudes, the dress makes a cameo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-25 00:02:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21346966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/pseuds/Kt_fairy
Summary: Fitzjames looked unused to receiving such a reserved reaction to his words, and adjusted his manner, tossing a shining curl out of his eyes with a graceful, well practised move, and Francis almost dropped his champagne as realisation tore into him like a squall.A chill in the night air, the stink of Portsmouth harbour, and those same dark eyes gazing up at him with firelight glinting in them.For his own sake as much as his Fitzjames' Francis tried not to show any reaction, be it recognition or shock, but he knew as well as anyone that he was not the finest master of his facial expressions. He cleared his throat, and took a sip of champagne to try and hide whatever his face might be doing, wishing desperately for dinner to be announced.“Captain Crozier, are you well?”
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 50
Kudos: 198





	smoking it open unto its rosey heart

**Author's Note:**

> This came to me while having an existential crisis in the shower at 7am, which is where all the best ideas come from, tbh.
> 
> Thanks to MsKingBean for your making this readable, and for being wonderful in general.

“Francis, for goodness sake try and look less like we are at a funeral.”

“Believe me I am trying.”

“Well, try harder,” Ross hissed into his ear, tone tantamount to an order, and turned his ever pleasant smile on George Barrow who had come over to speak to him.

To speak to Ross that was, not Francis; he drew even less society attention now than he had previous to the Antarctic, and certainly less than before his sudden departure for Italy barely a week after Ross finally married his Anne. 

An action that had been widely taken as a dismissal of society, and tantamount to his retirement from the Navy - which was how it had been intended, if Francis were honest. His patience had run out with the Admiralty, England and everything to do with them. His worth to both made apparent by Sir John’s low opinion of him; in Van Diemen's Land, on the other side of the world, an Irishman was good enough to be a friend, but in London he was not _ their sort_.

Yet here he was, standing in Admiralty House being stifled by his dress uniform, dreading the upcoming banquet where he would have to make _ conversation_, all because Sophia had asked it of him. 

Francis pulled a face and finished his glass of champagne, not caring for propriety as everyone was too caught up in Ross’ glow to pay him much attention. He had been understanding about it in the past, because Ross was dashing and daring and handsome, but now Francis was just bitter, and feeling more lonely than a man had any right to when surrounded by so many people.

He glanced about the Admiralty receiving room, at the fine wood panelling and paintings that recalled only the noblest of naval histories, shifting his feet on the plush carpet as he recalled the less well attended dinner the Admiralty had put on for the officers of Ross’ expedition six years ago. It had been a fine evening nonetheless, everyone full of excitement at the coming voyage and startlingly confident in their abilities as Arctic veterans. Every one of them had been naive, wholly unaware of how ill prepared they really were for the southern regions with their fast moving walls of ice, screaming winds, and frozen, towering seas. 

At least, he thought as he watched Sir John’s troop of shining young officers laugh dutifully at something Sir John Barrow said, he was aware this time of how truly unprepared this expedition was. Not that Francis wished to doom them all so soon, of course, not when Sophia had implored him to ensure success and good judgement; even if a true failure might do Sir John some good, he thought spitefully. Help rid him of some of his unearned pomposity.

The glint of candlelight on a fine gold epaulette caught Francis’ eye, and he returned his attention back to the noisy, stuffy room just in time to see the shiniest of the young officers, and the third in command of the expedition, making his way over to him. 

Fitzjames was a competent man, his record certainly impressive enough for Ross to have asked the Admiralty for him when recruiting officers for the Antarctic. He was also, as far as Francis could tell, a pup and a bit of a peacock, and he was not sure just what he thought of him.

Or, rather, he was determined not to think much of the handsome young man who would be safely on _ Erebus _ with Sir John, the both of them far away from Francis. He had successfully avoided proper conversation with the man since their appointments to the expedition, but it seemed the dashing young war hero had run him to ground at last. 

Francis looked over to the elegant fireplace where Ross was being monopolised by old admirals and his young wife, then mournfully into his empty glass, before facing his fate.

“Captain Crozier,” Fitzjames managed to sound smooth even with his clipped, oh so prim vowels, his voice deep enough to add a weight to Francis’ name that made him feel like he was commanding the expedition entire. Maybe that was why all these old men favoured him so; one word from him made them feel as important as they thought they were. “It should have been an age until Sir John - Franklin, that is - got us all around to this side of the room so I thought I would tack across the rushing tide, as it were.”

“It is a full turn out this evening, Commander,” Francis agreed for want of anything better to say, and made himself not look to Ross for help. 

“Quite quite, all the grand and the good, eh?” Fitzjames said in such a way that for a moment Francis feared he might let out a grating haw-haw of a laugh. Thankfully he just smiled gracefully, and half turned towards Francis, the medal on his chest shining. “I know this is not the place, and it’s an awful ambush on my part, yet you are a hard man to hunt down, sir, and one must seize one's chances.”

Francis raised his eyebrows, and wished a footman might come past with more champagne.

“Only, Colonel Sabine has been tasked with teaching me how to take magnetic readings - no doubt as an aid to your work - and so I wished to speak with you...”

“You are being taught how to take magnetic readings?” Francis asked slowly, somewhat gratified that his tone made Fitzjames blink.

“I...yes? I had assumed you had been…” Fitzjames pressed his lips together, rocking back on his heels as he realised the _ faux pas. _

So, the Admiralty not only found Francis wanting in his ability to command, but also do the scientific work that he had seen him inducted into the Royal Society. He was hurt, and angry, and glad in a nasty sort of way that his place as Second was such a thorn in everyone’s side. 

“Well?" he said tersely. "You assumed what?"

Fitzjames glanced back across at Sir John who was trying to pretend he was not watching this exchange, and then turned his full attention back to Francis. “I assumed that you at least had a hand in choosing who would assist you in this. I can only apologise, sir.”

His embarrassment seemed genuine, in fact it was the most fully genuine thing he had seen of the man, so Francis waved it away. “Not your fault, not your decision. I should thank you for the warning.”

Fitzjames nodded, obviously at a loss for what to say now, and Francis was struck once again by the notion that he had seen him before. It had come to him when they had been first introduced, and a few times when they had met in passing, but Francis had truly never cared ponder on it. There was something about Fitzjames’ current uncertainty that made the uncanny feeling come on all the more strong, and the curiosity that caused, along with a fresh glass of champagne, had Francis putting the man out of his misery. 

“How long have you been working with Colonel Sabine?”

“But a few days,” Fitzjames said, somehow managing to sound both relieved and arrogant. “I was a Gunnery Lieutenant by trade, you see, and so I find the maths most familiar. If not the equipment.”

“It will come with practical experience,” France said, the barb either not reaching its mark or going ignored as Fitzjames smiled at him.

“Indeed. Which is why I sought you out. What student would not wish to ask for word from the Master.”

That was sincerity disguising itself as flattery, a thing which baffled Francis utterly for a moment. “I am sure.”

Fitzjames looked unused to receiving such a reserved reaction to his words, and adjusted his manner, tossing a shining curl out of his eyes with a graceful, well practised move, and Francis almost dropped his champagne as realisation tore into him like a squall. 

A chill in the night air, the stink of Portsmouth harbour, and those same dark eyes gazing up at him with firelight glinting in them.

For his own sake as much as Fitzjames' Francis tried not to show any reaction, be it recognition or shock, but he knew as well as anyone that he was not the finest master of his facial expressions. He cleared his throat, and took a sip of champagne to try and hide whatever his face might be doing, wishing desperately for dinner to be announced.

“Captain Crozier, are you well?”

Of course Fitzjames would not recognise Francis. This must have been a decade a go at least, and the Polar Regions had not been kind to either Ross or himself in those years. A thing that Francis, for the first and only time, thanked God for.

“I uh. Yes,” he said shortly, and then said the first thing that came into his head. “I heard you were in China?”

“Ah,” Fitzjames brightened, and Francis only just stopped himself cringing. “Indeed I was. I was aboard _ HMS Cornwallis _ and was deployed to spot for the bombardment and lead the Naval Division at several points. It's not all very exciting, I must say, but you have probably heard about the siege of Shianking which ended the war? I was put in charge of a division of marines and ordered to attack the walls…”

  
  


*******

**1833** \- _Portsmouth_

The Hard was as damp and dirty and crowded as it always was when the ships in the harbour were paid off; the inns spilling sailors out onto the streets where they were singing and pissing or humping the poor wretched doxies who did not even have rooms to conduct their business in.

Officers stepped through and around the chaos, being as careful to keep the dirt from their boots as they were to keep a hand on their purses, making their way to more respectable establishments with more expensive company, or simply towards their lodgings. Which was what Lieutenant Francis Crozier was attempting to do, arms laden with the unwieldy wooden boxes of journals and log books from _ HMS Stag, _ the stack just tall enough to force him to hook his chin onto the topmost box so he could peer over the top.

They had been entrusted to him by his captain, who had put off leaving for London to surrender them to the Admiralty until the morning as his wife had come to Portsmouth to see him, and he had rushed off to _see_ _to her. _Francis did not mind the extra duty; he was not the carousing sort, and would like the chance to answer some letters and see his naval agent before heading back to Ireland.

The boxes were damned heavy though, and a year sitting off the coast of Portugal watching their civil-war go by had not warmed Francis enough to find England cold, not after years and years in the Arctic. He was sweating into his shirt, he could feel it, and the boxes were straining his arms, so that he took advantage of one of the piles of crates and barrels that littered the harbourside to take a rest.

Another was also taking advantage of them, a young man in a midshipman's uniform who was perched atop a barrel watching the goings on of Portsmouth in a particularly dejected manner. He was gangly in that youthful way of boys who had not yet grown into their long limbs, but seemed well built all the same, the murky dusk light catching his aristocratic features to give him a gaunt, slightly haunted look.

The whole image was one of such despondency that Francis could not ignore it, and after mopping his brow he caught the midshipman's attention.

The young man jumped, obviously not having noticed him. He gave Francis an annoyed look at first that quickly turned into that wariness that came upon all midshipmen when officers were about. "Sir," he said sharply and made to hop off the barrel, but Francis waved him down. 

"Peace, peace. I am not here to upbraid you,” Francis soothed, unable to help himself from grinning at how startled the boy was. “I simply wished to ask why you're sitting here and not off enjoying yourself."

"Oh," he said, sitting up straight on his barrel and adjusting his hat so it was at a more regulation angle. "It is nothing sir, or - not what I'd like to say to an officer," he glanced at Francis who was not taken in by the deference, and blushed. "My friends have abandoned me for… _ female company." _

The midshipman looked away from Francis, seemingly overcome with an even greater sense of dejection, and Francis winced at having embarrassed him so. “Well,” he said, scrambling to think of something to say and falling on the stern advice of doctors. “At least you are keeping yourself healthy by not indulging in that way. And you will have more money for enjoying yourself with food, and drink. And for lodgings, and such.”

“Quite right, sir.” The midshipman nodded, making to pick at a worn seam on his trousers but then seemed to think better of it. “I am saving mine for the coach home to Hertfordshire. I would rather have a good seat than a drink or the like. So I am waiting,” he cocked his head and shot Francis a smile that could almost be called rakish if not for the shiver that ran through him. “I am up to no mischief sir, fear not.”

“_You are too soft on the boys. You were too soft on me,” _ James Ross’ voice sounded in Francis’ head as he considered taking pity on the young man. The sharp edges of the boxes had begun to dig into his arms, and idle boys in docks could find themselves in all sorts of unpleasantness if they were not careful. Besides, Francis thought he might as well use his pay for something useful.

“What was your ship?”

_“St.Vincent_, sir. Just returned from Malta station.”

If anyone was going to be trustworthy, Francis hoped it would be a junior officer from the Flagship of the Mediterranean fleet.

“These boxes I carry are the logs and records from _HMS Stag. _I’ll give you a shilling if you carry one of these for me to my lodgings on the other side of the docks.”

The midshipman glanced in the direction Francis had nodded, then back to him. He dug his teeth into his bottom lip as he looked at Francis, and he felt that he was being appraised. He almost became indignant, his feathers ruffled at the thought that this _ boy _ was weighing him up, half expecting to be told that he ‘_did not do errands for Irishman for spare change’ _ in an oh so crisp _ English _ accent.

The midshipman let his lip slide out from between his teeth, but no snide remark came. Instead he hopped off of the barrel with a smart, “Aye sir.”

Francis covered his surprise by pushing the top three boxes far enough from the edge of the stack for the midshipman to scoop up, then stooped to pick up the two boxes left and lead the way along The Hard. 

“Might I ask, sir,” the midshipman asked brightly, hiking the boxes onto his hip with all the ease of youth. “Where have you served?”

“No exciting battles, I am afraid,” Francis said, speaking up to be heard over the general din. “I have been in the Arctic mostly.”

“Oh I say, really?” came the enthusiastic reply, and Francis had to glance at the boy to check that he was not being humoured. “I do like to read about all the things the Discovery Service, well… discover.”

“You do?”

“Yes, sir. I hope to make my way into it, one day. God and the Admiralty willing, and all that.”

“You would not rather be on a first rate ship of the line, going into glorious battle?”

“I should prefer to see a thing that I, or indeed anyone, had never seen before,” he declared, then added quickly. “Yet if I was called to battle I would not shrink from it.”

Young officers were all so determined to be seen as eager and brave, heads filled with rash ideas of heroism that never accounted for the disease or blood or boredom that had to be endured first, tarnishing the glamour of it all. Yet there was a thread of sincerity in this boy, and Francis found himself believing his claimed bravery.

“Of course,” Francis agreed, adjusting the load in his arms as he let a group of petty officers stagger past. 

“I got to see all of those ancient places in Greece while I was in the Med, and we passed through old Ilium too, as well as Ephesus, which was a grand time…”

Francis was not entirely sure what these places were, having never been to the Mediterranean and only having the vaguest knowledge of the Greeks. They were not on-board ship so Francis did not have to remind him of his discipline, and the dockside was loud enough that he could barely hear him anyway, and so let the boy chatter happily on.

They had to wait at the bottom of the stairs at Francis’ lodgings to let a stream of young men and their ladies make their way down. The midshipman stood close to the wall to make room, a curl of hair falling in front of his face when he ducked his head to stare at the floor instead of looking about the noisy going on’s of the inn, being quick to follow when Francis made his way upstairs and along to his room. 

“If you put them by the window,” Francis directed, and the boy crossed the space in three long strides to set his boxes down heavily before stepping aside to let Francis pass. 

He bent to check all was still in order as it had been when he had left _ Stag _, glancing over his shoulder at the boy who was stoking the banked fire. The flames leapt up with quick efficiency, and the boy stayed close to them, trying to be discreet about warming his hands. 

“How long until your coach leaves?” Francis asked.

“About an hour, sir.”

“Well, stay and warm yourself. We cannot have junior officers freezing in Portsmouth of all places.”

"Thank you, sir," the midshipman said with a glance down at his uniform. He let his bag drop to the floor as he perched on the stool by the fire, clearing his throat before giving Francis an expectant look.

Francis looked right back at him, confused, then remembered the promise of coin.

He fetched the shilling from his purse, aware of eyes tracking his every move as he crossed to the fire which had brought out the warmth in the boy's colouring, the shifting light softening his already youthfully handsome face. His eyes were as rich in colour as any of the women Francis had seen while in Brazil or the Pacific, and they stayed fixed on him even when the midshipman tossed his head to flick the errant curl out of them. 

It was one thing to notice a man was attractive when one was surrounded by available women, it was another thing entirely to notice it in a midshipman who looked as if he could be no more than seventeen at best. And especially not when Francis was nearing forty.

The boy tipped his head back to look at Francis when he stood before him, and Francis was firm in pushing away the notion that he was being purposefully allowed a glimpse of the creamy skin just inside his collar.

“Here,” Francis said, holding out the coin. The fire cracked in the grate as the moment stretched out while they watched one another; Francis with a stern determination not to look too hard, and the boy still expectantly. 

Dark eyes dropped to the coin, and a surprisingly elegant hand reached up to take it. “This… but I have not yet done any -” the boy fell silent suddenly, fist clenching hard around the coin. “Thank you, sir.”

“You did all that I asked, did you not?” Francis asked with a frown. The midshipman began to blush brightly, bold gaze suddenly averted, and Francis took a half a step backwards as realisation dawned. 

This boy had mistaken an offer of kindness for being solicited. Francis half turned away, and took a moment to compose himself; he had noticed the young man was attractive, but had not thought to act upon it, so there was no blame to be laid at his feet. As for the boy, what else could he have thought, being approached as he was at the dockside and brought back to an officer’s lodgings? 

Francis did not think of the ease with which the boy had agreed to come with him - now was not the time to ponder failings both societal and naval - instead reminding himself to be glad that he he had not asked the boy's name, nor shared his own. It would save them both a great deal of fear and worry in the future.

“You get caught doing this sort of thing, for coin or no, and they will hang you at best. At worse they will cane you, send you down, then put it in the papers. Make you an outcast from England and all Englishmen. Think of your family if not of yourself,” Francis addressed the far wall, but glanced at the boy when he saw him flinch. “I speak for your sake. A man might report you out of shame or spite or simply to be cruel, might even call you a thief just to get his coin back. Being a midshipman would not save you, you know. The Articles are clear on that.”

The boy ran his hand slowly down the front of his uniform as he took a look at the coin in his hand, then made to get to his feet. “Sir…”

“Keep it, you did what I asked you.”

“Then I shall thank you for the loan of your fire and leave, sir.”

“No, stay." Francis sighed, making an effort to gentle his tone. Lecturing and moralising were not his habit, especially not on a topic such as this, and he could hardly throw the boy back out onto the streets knowing what he might do. He was not in the business of saving souls, as such a thing was a man’s own business, but he could help a smart young man not fall into something he should not.

Francis went to sit at the desk on the other side of the room, pulling a sheet of foolscap to him and picking up a pen which he then pointed sharply at the young man sitting ramrod straight by the fire.

"In an hour you will get straight on the coach and go home to your family. Do you hear me?"

“Sir.”

“Good.”

There was a beat of silence, and then a sniff from the other side of the room that sounded an awful lot like a _ Thank you. _

  
  


*******

It was not quite as cold as it had been back when 1841 had become 1842, when _Erebus_ and _Terror_ were caught fast in the Antarctic ice field. At least in what remained of this year of 1845 the ships were safely held in the natural harbour caused by Beechey Island which kept the worst of those unpredictable Arctic squalls at bay, and gave the men somewhere more sturdy than the ice to hold their Christmas celebrations.

All was very merry, Francis thought as he looked over it all from where he was sitting with Sir John, only half listening to his declarations that the celebrations and fresh air would do their huddled sick a world of good. He was taking in the brightly coloured flags that brought cheer to the endless white and grey, and the glow of candles and lamps set about that were enhanced by the Aurora dancing through the sky with far more grace than those on the crowded dance floor. 

Men danced about with their friends to the scratchy music of the makeshift band, while those who had elected to come as ladies for the festivities played up to the attention. None more so much than Commander Fitzjames, who had found a velvet pink gown and matching bonnet somewhere, and was having a great deal of fun swirling his skirts around his boots as he moved with ease through a quadrille with Lt. Gore as a partner. 

“Aye, Sir John. A good celebration indeed raises the spirits,” Francis said in reply to what he thought Sir John had said to him, watching as Le Vesconte acted the cad and cut in to take over dancing with his commander.

It was a freedom of behaviour that could only be allowed in a pantomime of society, Francis mused, and did not allow his thoughts to wander over what else Fitzjames might let slide though the bounds of respectability at such a masque. 

Instead he found himself, as he tended to when faced with Fitzjames, trying to match the cold, eager boy from his memory, suffering from the awkwardness of youth, with the irritating, fashionably handsome man he was forced to sit opposite at dinners and command meetings. 

Attractiveness was still a bad thing to notice in a man, and Francis was far too old for such things anyway, but the bastard kept on drawing his eye.

“Ah, James,” Sir John cried happily from next to Francis, and he belatedly realised that the dance had ended and that Fitzjames was sweeping over to them. “Or rather, should I call you Miss Fitzjames?”

“I shall not argue it, for it is a better title than what Edward called me when I trod on his foot earlier,” Fitzjames remarked, his blustering baritone so at odds with his dress Francis almost laughed. Yet it reminded him of Ross in the Antarctic, when he had donned a dress for their own New Year’s celebrations, and Francis missed his friend so that he could not quite bring himself to merriment. 

“I think you are a very graceful dancer, James.”

“Thank you, Sir John,” Fitzjames smiled, then turned his attention to Francis, flicking out his fan and giving it a coy flutter in front of his face. “I say my good sir,” he declared in a breathy imitation of a feminine voice. “I have seen you watching. Might you care for the next dance?”

Francis felt his already cold chapped cheeks pink further, remembering the last time he had been subject to such boldness. The curls pressed against pale cheeks had been golden back then, not a rich brown, but the impertinence had been the same, as had the glitter in the eyes. 

“Oh - no…”

“Oh Francis, do,” Sir John urged. “You danced so well in Van Diemen's Land.”

Francis felt people looking at him, and wished he had a drink in hand. “Thank you, Sir John, but that was six years ago now, and the intervening years have not been all that kind.”

“Nonsense!” Fitzjames protested, but Fairholme had appeared at his elbow, and the young man seemed very keen on the next dance. “All the same, I shall not press you, Francis,” Fitzjames gave a ruffle of his fan as he let Fairholme take his arm. “Maybe next Christmas, then.”

  
  


*******

“I cannot rightly say, Francis. See, here…”

“Readings do strange things above the arctic circle, James,” Francis sighed as he peered at the pages of Fitzjames and Le Vesconte’s magnetic readings. “You cannot expect logic.”

“I know that,” Fitzjames almost snapped back - almost - and Francis raised his eyebrows as Fitzjames visibly tried to not look frustrated. “But the dip circle was not doing this at Cornwallis Island. And that is far further north than King William Land,” he made an expansive gesture around the meteorological hut that was set up on the same ice that was holding the ships fast. "Where we now sit."

“Are you sure the instruments have been set up correctly?” Francis asked, not meaning to be rude but by the look he received it seemed to have landed that way.

“For all that I am, I am no idiot. If you have come all the way from _ Terror _ to only be of no help, then I will work it out on my own,” Fitzjames huffed, letting his irritation creep into his voice as he turned back to his calculation book. 

That honesty in his tone had Francis relenting a little, and he set the book down so he could pull off his gloves. “Come here then, let me look.”

Fitzjames muttered something as he shifted his stool to one side to let Francis sit next to him. The hut was small, not made for more than three men at a squeeze, so their arms and knees knocked together as Francis looked over the instruments.

"See the needle? It was not doing this in Greenwich or Greenland," Fitzjames said with apparent frustration, reaching out to jab a finger at the offending object that was swinging wildly to and fro on its pivot, pausing at various points along the silver scale that ran around the inside of the upright brass circle before moving again, refusing to settle. 

Fitzjames was wearing fingerless gloves to work the equipment, and Francis flinched at how icy his fingers were as they brushed past his. “Sorry,” Fitzjames muttered, sticking his hands under his armpits.

Francis waved it off as he frowned at the dip circle, then back at Fitzjames who had hunkered down into his private purchase slops, the fur lined collar turned up so it almost met the bottom of the Welsh Wig he had pulled down under his cap.

"You look as if you had not spent two years up here already."

"Damned draughty and damnable cold sat about peering at bloody needles," Fitzjames grumbled, then ducked his head. "Sorry. I know this is your area of expertise…"

"Yes, it is," Francis said shortly, and they fell into silence as he tried to get the dip circle in order, fully aware of Fitzjames watching him intently. "How long has it been doing this?"

"All the time we have been here,” Fitzjames said hoarsely, then cleared his throat. “Ever since the compasses started spinning wildly. Sir John says it is simply how close we are to magnetic north and yet…" he gave Francis an uncertain look. "Anyway, his experience is more than mine."

"And yet Sir John has not been trained in magnetism," Francis hoped that had not sounded sour, and sighed. "We may have to put some iron or some sort close to it to still the needle, but I fear that would invalidate all results.”

Fitzjames grunted, blowing his steaming breath onto his long fingers. Francis watched him, the brush of his bitten lips against the pale skin, and then looked away.

“Put your hands between your thighs, it will warm them quicker than your armpits.”

Fitzjames made an _ oh _ sound that was more a puff of breath than anything, and the chilled flush on his cheeks darkened as he did just that. There was silence for a moment while Francis fiddled uselessly with the equipment, and then Fitzjames spoke quietly. “One would imagine a lewd fellow like Sir George Back would have a lurid tale or two about warming his hands between some beauties thighs.”

Francis snorted in surprise at the bawdy nature of the joke, shooting a smile over his shoulder at Fitzjames who was grinning brightly over the top of his scarf. 

“I am sure many officers have tales to tell about warming hands on long voyages,” Francis said, and Fitzjames’ smiled faltered, his expression becoming uncertain as he turned his attention back to the dip circle. 

Francis had no idea how what he had said was worse than what Fitzjames had, and tramped down the embarrassment of a joke falling flat as he too turned his attention forward. No doubt all of_ Erebus’ _ wardroom would hear about his crudeness later today, and Francis would be met with disapproving looks at the next command meeting.

“Is the contraption done for, then?” Fitzjames muttered, throwing his legs out in a childishly petulant way. 

“If the ice breaks up and we can move south again, then it…”

“_When _ the ice breaks up,” Fitzjames corrected, a dutiful repetition of Sir John that worked its way right under Francis’ skin.

“I have been both further south and further north than Sir John. I was here when James Ross made Farthest North. This weather is not normal, and nor is this,” he stood, tugging his glove back on as he made his way to the door of the hut. “Blind optimism might have suited you well in China, Commander Fitzjames, but the Arctic will make us - make _ you _\- pay for it.”

  
  


*******

The man sat in the corner of Erebus’ wardroom was nothing like the exacting, sometimes infuriating, officer that Francis had endured for the past two years. Fitzjames did not seem to care that his hair was soaked with snow, once delicate curls now a lank mess that fell to almost curtain his face as he curled over on himself. `

Francis could still clearly picture the desperate sight Fitzjames had made while kneeling on the ice, uncaring about the cold. His stunned, horrified face turning desperate when he had looked up at Francis across the fire hole, his cries for Sir John becoming anguished. 

Cries that Francis, no matter what he had felt about Sir John’s competency, he could only agree with. One hundred and twenty-five souls were now his duty to protect and sustain like a father, to command, a role he had been desperate for but now wished with all his heart he did not have. 

He had seen the same weight reflected in Fitzjames’ shining eyes when the man had finally roused himself from despondency to turn his indignant anger upon Francis. That moment, looking at one another over Sir John’s cocked hat, might be the first time they had ever wholly seen eye to eye. It lasted for only a few seconds, fading along with all of Fitzjames’ fire when Francis assured him that the rescue party would go, no matter what. 

“I understand that you will have a difficult few days on _ Erebus_,” Francis said softly, the durge the men had been singing upon his arrival still ringing in his ears. “Especially with Fairholme absent. I will lend you Hodgson for a few days if needed.”

Fitzjames did not seem to have heard him, so Le Vesconte straightened from where he had been leaning on the chart cabinet. “Thank you no, sir. I am sure Captain Fitzjames and I shall manage.”

“Very well,” Francis nodded, discreetly ignoring the way Fitzjames flinched when his new title was spoken aloud. “If any assistance is needed, do not hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Francis looked back at Fitzjames who had begun to shiver, his gloved hands clenched into fists where they rested on his knees. He wanted to order him into a seat by the stove, to have warm rum called for and maybe have Goodsir give him something to calm him, but that was not his place now. Fitzjames was a captain, commanding a ship in the Arctic, and he could not be fussed over as if he were a boy. Not when it was paramount that he was seen to be steady, now more than ever.

Francis dropped his gaze from Fitzjames and shifted in his seat. He could feel the weight of the look Le Vesconte was giving him, obviously wishing him gone, and Edward’s uneasy presence behind him, so he stood, walking around the table to ease the pages of Sir John’s writing from beneath his Bible. “Sir John intended these words to be heard. I do not pretend to be as good an orator as he, but I will not rob the men of them.”

His declaration was met with Fitzjames further bowing his head, and Francis turned away rather than face his misery. The burden of his own unhappiness was heavy enough, and seeing Fitzjames in such a way troubled him more than he would care to acknowledge. 

“We shall leave you to your grief, gentlemen. For it is surely being felt on _ Terror _ as keenly as it is here,” he looked to Fitzjames, speaking to him gently even though the man was still gazing resolutely at the floor. “As I feel it.”

Fitzjames clenched and unclenched his fists, breathing deeply as if he were about to speak again, but did not.

Francis followed Edward from the room, sliding the door closed behind him. Mr Bridgens was standing in the entrance to the wardroom, as heavy with shock and sadness as everyone was. He managed to pull his concerned gaze from the door of the Great Cabin to Francis, the both of them ignoring the sob that rang out and the sound of Le Vesconte’s light footfall passing rapidly across the deck. 

“We are returning to _ Terror _ now. If he - if Captain Fitzjames has not calmed by the time the men are asleep, have Stanley come and see to him then.”

“Aye sir,” Bridgens said, dutifully not reacting to the muffled sobs coming from behind the door. “I was going to bring sweet tea in half an hour what ever happened, sir.”

“Good man,” Francis sighed, wondering what the hell tea was supposed to do for a man at a time like this. Spirits to burn away the stab of pain was what was needed, the Irish knew that well enough, but English wisdom had to prevail even out here. 

Slops donned and _ Terrors _ collected, they trudged up the hatch onto the silent deck and then down the ramp and onto the ice. The same ice that Sir John’s body was trapped beneath, Francis thought, keeping his eyes forward and fixed upon the dark shape of _ Terror _ on the horizon _ . _

  
  


*******

“Good christ, Frank,” Blanky muttered as he dropped down into the seat next to Francis at the table.

“What’s wrong?”  
  


Thomas raised a brow, not even bothering to look in the direction of the door that the _ Erebites _ had just disappeared through at the end of the command meeting. 

It had been over a month since Sir John had died, and everything still felt strange. Slips of the tongue still had Francis being called by the dead man’s name when he sat at the head of the table, silences fell that he could not lift with the same geniality as Sir John had, and, until today, Fitzjames had been almost silent at every command meeting or dinner. 

Le Vesconte had done most of the talking for _ Erebus_, doing his best to draw attention away from how pinched his captain had looked and the dark shadows that clung on beneath his eyes, but Francis noticed them every time. It felt like a great weight rested upon his chest whenever he had seen Fitzjames in such a reduced state, was greatly unsettled by the blankness in a man who had been so vibrant and annoying, and Francis would knock back a glass of whiskey as soon as he was alone to try and wash the feeling away. 

Today though, the change in James had been noticeable almost at once, as surely as if he had thrown off mourning clothes. He was not his usual self, there was no glitter about him, but his melancholic shock seemed to have lifted, and he had even managed a joke that had made the lieutenants laugh and brought a smile to Francis’ face.

Francis had been more relieved than he thought he would ever be to see Fitzjames make a polite jest. He had even remarked upon it when his second had been leaving, which was a foolish thing to do, and he had cringed over a quartermasters report rather than suffer whatever the man's reaction might be. Probably disdain, and certainly embarrassment at having such clumsy attention brought to his grief.

Thomas had watched it all of course, in that impassive way of his, and now he made good use of the liberties Francis allowed him to remark - “Not seen a display like that off you since - well...If it’s not a man’s niece, it’s ‘is _ protégé _yer after.”

“Thomas!” Francis warned, glancing at Gibson who had just stepped in to begin clearing away the tea. 

“God rest Sir John’s soul, an’ all that.” Thomas said, ignoring him.

“I am interested in his well-being, as my fellow captain,” Francis whispered, rubbing at his brow. “You saw how distressed he was, when it happened. What am I to do if he stumbled? Install Little upon _ Erebus _?”

“He won’t stumble. It’s been a month almost, ‘ent it? Captain Fitzjames won’t stumble now.” Thomas assured as firmly as if he was speaking of the ice. “There’s a thick vein a’ sturdiness in that pup, mark me.”

“There’s vanity. I could see him holding together out of that, at least.”

“You’re being uncharitable te shield yerself, an’ I say that it does not suit thee Francis.”

Francis gave him a dirty look and stood, rolling up the chart that had been in the centre of the table. “Does it not, Thomas?”

“No it does not,” Thomas waited for Gibson to step out of the room before continuing. “He has always wanted camaraderie from you. Now anything else is beyond my station to speak of, even to you, but we all know how things go out ‘ere.”

“Bloody hell,” Francis growled. “What do you suggest? That I…” he did not finish that thought as Gibson re-appeared, and judging by the look Thomas was giving him he had been about to suggest exactly what Francis was going to say. “_That I get a weekly frig off him?” _

Francis applied himself to putting the charts away, a job he should have left to Irving, resolutely ignoring Thomas. James Fitzjames was handsome and charming and well liked - Francis had no doubt that even if he was being paid for it, Fitzjames would have a finer option than his whiskey soaked, unhappy self for company.

“Well,” Thomas sighed, pushing himself to his feet. “You got all winter to work it out, I suppose.”

  
  


*******

The whimper that echoed around the deck was guttural, hitching with a pain as sharp as the crack of the cat. Mr Hickey exhaled deeply, preparing himself for the next strike that had him flinching onto the balls of his feet.

"Again,” Francis ordered, unmoved. It was never pleasant to see a man flogged, no man in his right mind could claim to enjoy it, but Mr Hickey was not going to move him to sympathy.

This man could not do as he pleased on Francis's ship, nor would he dare speak to him as if they were equals. Francis was captain, the expedition commander. He was not this man's fellow simply because they shared the misfortune of being born Irish.

Mr Johnson paused, glancing to Francis as Hickey turned his head to look right at him. He was drenched in sweat, pale with shock, snot and spit mingling in his whiskers, eyes bright with pain, but he was not cowed. Insolence was clear in his face even though he trembled, breath shuddering out of him.

"Again."

Fitzjames looked at him then. Francis could feel his eyes on him, could always feel them, and it pricked his already wounded pride. The man had remained silent while Irving had whispered charges of sodomy to them, expression so carefully blank it was almost an admission. They all knew the Articles, they all knew the law, and Fitzjames knew it was Francis’ due as _ captain_ to punish the breaking of those rules, to punish _ disrespect_, and to remind his crew the price of those things. 

If his second in command wished for mercy, he could enact it on his own bloody ship.

Hickey screamed through his teeth, body twisting as the cat struck open wounds, but Francis did not relent. He did not raise his gaze from Hickey who looked right back at Francis as he hid a cry of pain beneath his teeth, twitching. Francis would not back down, not for a caulker's mate. 

Mercy was all well and good in the sea lanes of the Persian Gulf, when your crew were lazy with sunshine and respected you for little more than your dash and your _ Englishness_. Here, in the dark and the cold, it would only be a weakness. 

That his men had left their posts to collect the Inuit woman was sign enough that he did not have the control over them that he should. And that this man had engineered it all and thought he would _not_ be punished showed exactly what he thought of Francis.

Oh yes, Mr Hickey was so very wise to hide his Irishness from the world, and Francis was a short sighted fool for not doing so.

"_Again_."

Hickey looked away from him, breathing hard to try and brace himself for the next strike of the cat that made a wet sound as it landed, skin being ripped from flesh.

Francis felt the ragged, animal groan that came from Hickey, and saw the way it sent a flinch through the men as another strike landed on the backs of his thighs. 

Mr Johnson was tiring, and what was left of Hickey's insolence faded as he pressed his forehead to the table, seeming to accept the pain as it came, his whimpers and groans growing quiet.

Flogging a man until he fainted was not righteous naval justice, it was cruelty, and Francis felt Fitzjames' eyes on him all the more intently. 

Sir John would never have been so demonstratively cruel, and Francis doubted that Fitzjames even had the stomach for it. But Francis, the whiskey soaked, unloveable Irishman, was a perfect example of his barbaric and _ low _ race.

He remained silent when Mr Johnson looked at him again, and marines moved to untie Hickey from the table.

There was blood on the deck, smeared by feet scrabbling for purchase against pain. Francis looked at it as Hickey removed himself to sickbay, how thick and bright it seemed in the low light, and did not feel any more in control for having ordered it’s spilling. 

Fitzjames was _ still _ watching him as Francis stepped over the pool of blood to face the men, and a voice in the back of his head whispered "_bad omen_".

  
  


*******

Fitzjames sighed deeply, and Francis slipped out of his silent brooding to blink over at him.

“What?” 

Fitzjames shot him a look that could almost be called sour, gaze dropping to the glass of whiskey in Francis’ hand before turning back to his plate. “Nothing.”

“James,” Francis said as if explaining the tide to a civilian. "The ships are stuck in the ice and I doubt it will release us anytime soon. We are being stalked by some creature, the food has all become the same awful tinned mush, and the only company we have is one another. So why not have a drink, hey?"

"Because the men need order."

"What the men need is a rise of sixty degrees and open waters. Not me looking like I'm at an Admiralty Gala. I have you for that." He said the last part snidely, sipping his whiskey, and was almost disappointed to not receive an equally snide reply. 

He set down his glass and turned to look at Fitzjames properly. Francis did not make a habit of it much these days, as when he did his mind wandered to places it should not; wants and wonderings that he had tramped down since he made Lieutenant rearing their head once more.

It was the whiskey’s fault, Francis told himself, as he could not quite bear it being anything else. His heart had been dragged over the coals by Sophia who had wanted him and yet would not marry him, and Francis doubted it could survive being coolly ignored by James bloody Fitzjames. Not when all was so miserable that all anyone wanted was some kindness. Some human warmth. 

He let his eyes flick over Fitzjames all the same, his indulgence in whiskey allowing this further indulgence. Fitzjames no longer held himself quite so stiffly as he had before Sir John died, not in private anyway, his whole demeanour slumped and softened by the gansey he now seemed to wear daily. It suited him, Francis thought, smoothed all his elegant sharp edges and made him seem more human. More like the man who had laughed with his fellow officers at past celebrations, more like the boy Francis had barely known half a lifetime ago, not the caricature of a gentleman Fitzjames played at being so well. 

“James?” Francis asked in a voice soft enough that it surprised him to hear it, and seemed to jolt James into looking up at him, tossing his hair from his eyes. 

“Yes.”

Francis turned his glass between his fingers but did not raise it to his lips, struck by the guileless look on James’ open face. “Just because I am morose, and the winter nights last for months, does not mean you should become disheartened also,” Francis found himself saying, wishing for the first time in a long time that he was not drunk. “I know that misery loves company, but I do not wish for the company to be miserable also.”

“That rather defeats the object of misery having company, Francis,” James smiled genuinely, his eyes crinkling as he did so, then dropped his gaze to where he was tracing the grain of _ Erebus’ _ wardroom table with his fingertips. “It is hard to not be so. It’s… exhausting at times to be a captain. As you well know. One wishes for a moment of peace,” he muttered, then sat up straighter. “Not that I would shirk my duties. I am fully…”

“I am not the bloody Admiralty board, James,” Francis said wearily, picking up his whiskey. “You do not need to assure me you know your duty. You will either be up to it, or you won’t - practical is what matters up here, not empty words.” Francis pointed at him with his glass. “It is who a man is and what he can do that matters, not what is thought of him.” 

Francis snorted at the irony of him being the one to say that, and looked away from James as he gulped down a mouthful of whiskey.

“Indeed,” James agreed quietly, rubbing at his eye with the back of his hand. “It is only that - it is only that I never know what you think of me, Francis. Sometimes you are intent upon me, others kind, but mostly I am ignored! So excuse my not knowing how you would take any unguarded thing I say!” James’ voice became harsher as he spoke, ending in a waspish tone that made Francis smile. 

“Peace, peace - I do not speak to upbraid you,” Francis said, half noticing the strange look James gave him. “I simply prefer you unguarded to guarded. Especially now.”

James was silent for a moment, then glanced at Francis from beneath the smudge of his lashes. “You prefer my lack of storytelling also, I wager,” he said quietly, grinning eagerly when Francis barked a laugh. 

“See, when we have both been unguarded there is laughter,” Francis advised, unsure where this sudden merriment had come from.

James shook his head even though there was still an open smile on his face, and poked the handle of his fork so it scraped against the plate. “I cannot be unguarded at all times, Francis. That way… that way lies disaster. You must know that.”

Francis swallowed, unsure how he should react to those words. They were purposefully vague in a very clear way that those with inverted tendencies knew well, and Francis wondered then if Fitzjames had known him all this time. He would have expected more anxiety from him if he had, for any man would be if another knew of his past willingness to go to a man’s rooms for a shilling. But James was a man constructed of layers hidden under layers, and Francis had not yet been sober enough to search his way through them.

Francis straightened when James pinned him with the directness of his gaze, recalling every time he had looked at James - both drunk and sober - and had wanted to reach out and, sometimes, be met halfway. A thing that a man as used to being adored as Fitzjames would have seen at once.

They looked at one another, unmoving, Francis hardly daring to blink, until James’ openness shuttered and he dropped his eyes back to the table. 

“Ah,” he muttered, taking up his brandy and draining it without so much as a wince. “I see.” His chair scraped back across the deck as he stood, long legs taking him the long way around the table to get to the crystal decanters at Francis’ back. He crouched easily, with none of the creaks or groans that came with age, and searched about in the cabinet until he pulled out a green glass bottle. 

“Christ,” Francis muttered, turning away from the horribly familiar medicinal smell of the gin that James slopped into his glass.

“Don’t,” James muttered as he put the glass back and knocked the cabinet closed with his knee. “Sir John disproved of drinking, and even more so of gin.‘_Mother’s ruin will have you ruining a mother_’ he’d say.” James laughed, and dropped back into a chair further along the table. “If only he knew.”

They sat in a silence made heavy by James’ dark mood. Francis' fogged mind struggled to find the source of the change, becoming distracted by the way Fitzjames was bouncing his leg under the table, the movement becoming more and more rapid until Francis had to reach out and stop it. 

He planted his palm onto James’ thigh and pushed down hard to keep his leg still, and did not miss the way James gasped. If he were a braver man Francis might have moved his hand up his strong thigh and tried to wrench a few more gasps from him. Instead, he dropped his gaze from the wide eyed look James was giving him, and sat back. “Calm down for Christ's sake.

“If you can hide behind your bottle, then so can I,” James said. He threw back a mouthful of gin, then smiled sharply at Francis. “Being unguarded is not so much fun now you are on the back foot, is it?”

  
  


*******

Francis groaned as his whole body protested. His stomach churned dangerously, and he felt a sweat break out on his already soaked skin as his head swam. He breathed for a moment, his body deciding on whether it would throw up more bile all over the floor, which, thankfully, it did not, the nausea fading as he sunk down heavily into his stinking bunk. 

“There we are,” a voice that was far too deep for Jopson’s spoke softly, and Francis would have opened his eyes to check had his eyelids wished to cooperate.

A damp cloth passed over his forehead and temples, trailing down his neck to press against his chest a moment before being pulled away. The trail of cool water left in its wake was like a balm on Francis’ burning skin and he sighed, an action that had him coughing drily. 

“Oh - dammit. All right.” A rough hand slipped under his head and lifted it with the utmost care, bringing Francis towards a glass of cool water that he sipped at until his stomach complained. “There we are, Francis. Lay quietly now, or I shall be scolded by young Mr Jopson upon his return.”

It was James, and Francis was vaguely aware that at some later date he might be embarrassed to have been seen by him in such a state. 

“I came to see how Little was doing, and Jopson… well, I shall spare you the details, but I am giving him a moment.” There was a beat of silence, and Francis felt the back of a warm hand press to his forehead. “He’s running himself ragged for you, old boy,” James said quietly, pushing Francis’ hair from his temple. “You have that effect on people, you know. They so desperately want to be loyal to you, to follow you, and yet you hardly let us.”

Francis dare not make any noise or movement, so lay still, listening to James’ low, melodious, wonderfully soothing voice. “You probably do not wish to hear or know this, but I asked Dr McDonald all about…this. The dangers, as I would like to know if I am to… because you see, I never saw a great deal of drinking in my youth. Or what I can remember of it, rather.” James fell silent a moment, and Francis heard the creak of the rail as if it was being gripped. “It is no easy thing you do Francis, it is rather dangerous in fact. I know you drove yourself to this point, but you are doing it anyway, for all our sakes. I do not know if you can hear me, or will recall this, but know that I am very - I am… I respect this. Francis, I respect you for this. It’s…it is what the man I read about in Parry and Ross’ memoirs would do.”

There was quiet then, just Francis’ struggling breath and the creak of the ice. He let those words sink in, from Fitzjames of all people, and when he opened his eyes he saw that earnest and uncertain youth sitting upon a barrel in Portsmouth once again. 

“You’ll get in trouble if you carry on like that, boy,” Francis rasped out, and the youthful face changed into the far more careworn, but nevertheless handsome, James he knew, one perfect eyebrow raised. 

“I say, I have not been called a boy in…” he fell silent, brow furrowing. “Seventeen years, I believe. Not since I was in Malta. I know you are older than I, but I doubt you are all _ that _ much older.”

Francis let that wash over him, too busy looking at the crinkles around James’ smiling eyes that had been turned golden by the lamp light slanting across them. Golden like the colour of _ Inishowen _ whiskey. 

The satisfying warmth and the smooth, pleasingly smokey taste of whiskey came to him then, the burn of it that dulled everything, and Francis turned his face away from James, pulling his blanket up over his head. 

“Well, how nice- ” James started. 

“You remind me of whiskey,” Francis managed to say loudly enough to be heard, not caring at how weighty the admission was. “Something I want very badly.”

The silence stretched again, and he felt James shift before a hand rested upon his arm. His hands were large, and strong, and the weight of one on Francis’ arm felt blissful in the strange comfort it gave him. He could feel James was about to speak, no doubt considering what one might say to a man who was barely coherent, when the cabin door slid open. 

“Ah, Jopson. You need not have rushed, you know.”

“I know sir, but I didn’t like to keep you from your duties.”

“My duties are not as many as yours are right now, I wager,” James said, letting his hand slip from Francis’ arm. “But I shall not argue with that fierce look in your eyes, eh Mr Jopson?”

“Sir,” Jopson said, and Francis smiled to himself as James laughed. 

  
  


*******

“What are you doing?”

Francis spoke a little too loudly, a little too sharply, and he winced when James leapt back like a frightened cat, scrambling to his feet so fast he almost upset his chair.

“I am sorry,” he said quickly, the gentle openness his expression had taken on while they had been speaking closing off entirely. “I meant no disrespect or insult, sir. Let me express my most sincere apologies...”

“When have you ever called me _sir_, James?” Francis asked gently, dipping his head to try and catch James’s gaze that was set resolutely towards the deck. 

“Maybe I should. It would avoid future repeats of this… situation.”

“I am not angry,” Francis soothed, watching as James’s eyes flicked to him and then back to the floor. “I admit to being surprised, but I am not angry at you James. Will you sit again?”

Francis felt like he was handling a skittish horse, sitting quietly and patiently while James stood in the middle of the room pulled tight as a rope about to snap. He rocked back on his heels, and Francis thought for a moment that he would flee, but James was brave if he was anything and he slowly sat back down, back as ramrod straight as if he were sitting before an admiral, as uncertain and embarrassed as he had been fifteen years ago.

Fifteen years, and they had ended up back here again; Francis showing kindness to James who had so needed it in the shattered, smouldering ruins of Carnivale, and James believing that he wanted something from him. What lessons a young James Fitzjames must have been taught to believe that this was the way of gentleness and care did not bare thinking about. 

“I admit,” Francis said slowly. “That I do not know quite what to say."

“I believe a reminder of what the Articles promise, and of the behaviour expected of an English officer and a gentleman might be usual for this kind of _weakness_.”

Francis could not remember word for word what he had said to that midshipman huddled before the fire in his lodgings, but that was familiar enough to be the gist of it. If Francis had known his words would have resounded so clearly he would have chosen them with greater care.

“James,” Francis said firmly, and James finally looked at him, eyes wide and bright in the lamplight. “If I were to remind you of the Articles I should be a hypocrite, and for more than just my behaviour these past months."

James' throat bobbed behind his high collar as he carefully tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. "I have seen you looking at me since before we left England, you know. And every time I thought I knew why - disdain, want, friendship, vexation - you would change your manner towards me almost at once. It’s enough to drive a fellow to distraction, I’ll have you know. To think that you… you wanted, but either would not allow yourself, or found me too _ unlikeable _ to do so."

Francis blew out a breath, and placed his hand gently on James’ leg. “I wanted, but I did not want to, because you are young and have a fine career ahead of you - and I am aware enough in myself to know that I am not a man who garners such _ reactions _ out of passion alone. Or who has ever been looked to for comforts in this way…”

“Did you ever wish for these comforts?” James asked, the masculine rumble of his voice making Francis hesitate.

“Passively,” he admitted. “But there was always a distraction, or an assurance it was the lack of female company. Or, indeed, my better judgement.”

“We left better judgement behind in Victorian Strait,” James said quietly. “Do you wish for them now? Those comforts?”

Francis felt his face heat as he looked at James who was the opposite of Sophia in every single way, and yet was still so very perfect and correct, too beautiful a thing for Francis’ old, rough Irish hands to dare spoil.

“Yes.”

James smelt of smoke and sweat, and his mouth tasted of tea laced with brandy and the stickiness of fear. He was solid and warm as he pushed Francis against the table - Sir John’s table - but the body Francis could feel under thick wool felt fragile, was trembling with something other than the cold. Francis wrapped his arm around James to hold him close and James sighed into his mouth as he sunk into him, reaching chilled fingers into Francis’ trousers. 

The size and roughness of his hand was alien enough to make Francis jolt in surprise but he did not pull away, instead burying his face into James's crumpled, soot stained collar to hide the noises he knew were undignified for a man of his age to make. They seemed to only encourage James to work him faster, his free hand clutching onto Francis’s coat as if he were the one whose knees felt like they were about to give out from under him.

Thankfully that did not happen when Francis spilled into James’s hand with a grunt, but he was left blissfully free of all thoughts and cares for a few moments, light headed and wonderfully loose.

Dry lips brushed against his temple, an act of such gentle affection that it surprised Francis into easing the grip he had on James. He leant back enough to chance a glance up at James who was, despite the ungainly nature of Francis’ pleasure, looking at him with want in his dark eyes, his breathing deep and uneven as he flexed his fingers that were still gripping tightly onto Francis' coat.

Francis dropped his gaze to the front of James’ trousers and allowed the idea - the fact - that another man was aroused because of him, that he had encouraged it, to settle, before reaching for the buttons. James caught his hands before he could open any, speaking low and soft. “You are innocent of this. No blame can be laid at your door, and no dishonour as a commander…”

“Oh, bollocks to all that,” Francis growled, feeling somewhat proud of himself for startling James. He pulled his hands free from James’ grip and set about getting his trousers open. “I am no better than you, and you are no better than I,” he hesitated, and then touched James cheek very gently. “I will not have you wanting.”

James shuddered, nodded, and grasped at Francis again when he delved a hand into his linens. He was sure his fumbling, inexperienced handling of James’s prick would be humoured at most, but James's hitching breaths were coming hard and fast, his hips jerking desperately as he found relief almost as quickly as Francis had. 

They stood together, Francis somewhat shocked by what had just occurred and James becoming perfectly still as his breathing slowed.

Francis's first order of business was to extract his hand from James's trousers and neaten them both, his second was to dig out his handkerchief and clean his own hand before taking a deep breath and offering it to James. 

He found himself watching as James carefully wiped all traces of Francis from his elegant fingers and looked way, up into James’ shadowed face. He did not look afraid of Francis, or ashamed of himself, but there was a stillness about him, a lingering desperation that had nothing to do with their hurried mutual gratification.

Francis knew that distance was usual in this kind of aftermath, but James looked so very alone and somehow small, standing silently and painfully contained, exhaustion laced through every part of him.

Francis put his hand on James’s arm, giving him enough time to pull away or make his excuses, before sliding it up to grasp his shoulder. He moved up onto his toes when James sagged against him, their arms slipping about one another in an ungainly, uncomfortable embrace as Francis turned his face into James's hair.

The lamp light flickered over the close walls of _ Erebus’ _ great cabin as the familiar metallic tang of blood filled his nose, and all the warmth Francis had felt growing just behind his heart became cold and heavy.

  
  


*******

There was no comfort to be had anywhere out here. The bedding they dragged with them hardly protected increasingly fleshless limbs from the rough ground anymore, the tents become so threadbare that the endless daylight poured in as easily as the biting cold air. 

James was warm, but even that was no comfort. The only people who were truly warm were the sick, and it was a burning sort of heat, sickly and sharp.

That did not stop Francis from laying close to James when it was time to collapse into sleep, or to sit near him in the scant minutes before that. James was more his old self in these moments, after he had eaten what meagre food that had not spoiled and taken a moment to rest after hauling he could chatter and talk and even manage a jest or two with Le Vesconte before exhaustion took him.

Today, whatever day that might be, James was flung out on his scant bedding, limbs laying where they wished as if he had been dumped limp upon the ground, and he was telling a story that Francis was hanging on to every word of.

"I almost crashed out of the Navy at twenty, you know. My lieutenants’ exam had been… one of the captains on the board knew my birth certificate had been forged - I think he recognised my grandfather in me - and was determined not to pass me. Even though when the document had been made I was but one year of age and had very little say in the matter," James said archly, then his expression became sombre. "Not that I found myself minding all that much if I was to be denied advancement. I'd had a… I'd had a Mate who treated me… well, treated himself more like, whenever he managed to catch me, and I thought - oh. Francis don't give me that face,” James said gently, as if he had not just admitted such a thing. “It happens to more than just me, you know that."

Francis shifted, and reached out to grasp James' shoulder, feeling his sharp collar bones through the layers he was wearing. "That does not mean I can not be appalled, James. Good God."

“I know. But I am rather past worrying about it now.” James smiled up at him, closed mouthed, and patted Francis’ hand. "I was a young man who missed his family, was fagged out by the Navy and fair broke, waiting about in Portsmouth for the night coach to take me home when a lieutenant came to speak to me. There was some misunderstanding about an errand he wanted me to do for him, and instead of thrashing me as another man might be was kind, and understanding, while speaking to me firmly of course. And I suppose that convinced me to not pack it all in, that one bit of decency.”

Francis had began to blush while James had been talking; not only because of how kindly James was speaking of him, but to have the whole thing relaid with such fondness, absent all the anxiety Francis had always associated with the memory. He shifted, ducking his head in an attempt to hide his blush from James’ failing eyesight, and let his hand half slip from his shoulder. 

“Was the errand carrying boxes of log books?”

James gasped, being careful of his bad arm as he half turned to Francis. “By God, that was you wasn’t it!?”

“Yes.”

“Good lord. There were moments when I thought I knew you from somewhere. I… Good lord.” James was silent for a moment, then grabbed at Francis’ hand once again. “Oh please say you did not recognise me, or I should be very embarrassed.”

“I did. At the Banquet before we left England."

"Oh _ Lord_,” Fitzjames muttered, his sallow cheeks managing to colour. “What must you think of me.”

“Nothing that matters, James. That was not why I treated you as I did, you understand. It was not judgement. It was only… maybe some judgement, of us both.”

“Both?” 

“You looked as well as a boy as you do as an adult.”

“Come now, you flatter me. I was twenty and ungainly in my old midshipman's uniform. It was barely less ragged than my slops are now."

“I thought you _ were _ a midshipman, and no more than sixteen! What with your ridiculous, awkward long limbs,” Francis huffed in jest, smiling when James snorted. “Which was - well, no. Even if I had known you were twenty I would not have allowed myself to be tempted by you.”

“Of course not. Decent fellow like you. And I’ll have you know that I only went with you because I liked your smile and your breadth of shoulders… and because I needed the shilling,” James joked and Francis managed a dry laugh.

“Here I was thinking that I was getting a sincere compliment.” 

“I am always sincere.” James wheezed as he felt around for Francis’ hand and took it up in his. “I am pleased to hear that at thirty… thirty…” he frowned, gaze going hazy and distant. “In my thirties, I am still as tempting. I hope to continue ageing as...” James fell silent, his grip on Francis’ hand loosening somewhat. “Anyway. At twenty I should have been very insulted to be thought so young.”

The snap of the wind against the wall of the tent was the only sound for a while, the desperate, hopelessness of the situation they were in creeping up on Francis until he could no longer stand it. “I’m so sorry James."

“What on earth for?”

“...you said yourself you would have left the Navy if not for...”

“Now! I will not have you apologising for being kind, or decent. Do you hear me?”

“You might be safely at home, having designed or written something more clever than I could ever understand. Maybe married…”

James laughed around his bleeding gums that were starting to pull back from this teeth much like, Francis could not help thinking, a corpse.

“Ah well. It is all done now,” James said softly, squeezing Francis’ hand. “Do not feel bad for being kind to a lost soul,” he peered up at Francis, his warm brown eyes managing to focus on him for a heartbeat. “It is not so bad to be out here with you.”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Me: a serial Fix-It'er  
Also me: Imma leave this open ended.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
>   
now with art by oochilka.


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